


Formidable Marinade (Female Reader x Spades Slick)

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, The Midnight Crew - Fandom
Genre: And other such nonsense, F/M, Help, Humanstuck, Making Out, Mechanics, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Robot Anatomy, Why Did I Write This?, as per usual, fluff probably, how does one tag, i mean really what is everyone expecting of me, lots of lack of knowledge on how mechanics do shit, poorly edited, robot stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-08-20 13:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8251435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Reader is a mechanic with an aptitude for cybernetics that most don't know about. But Spades Slick isn't most. And he needs some help. (i'm sorry that i have brought this upon the world i never thought in my life i'd be writing a reader x fic)





	1. What Happened?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ten8cinator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ten8cinator/gifts).



Days like these are, in all honesty, your favorite kind. While others may look at you and see misery, sweat-drenched and oil-smeared and downright disgusting misery, but you are, in fact, in love with your work. Lazily muggy summer afternoons, toiling over this repair or that spare part, doing what you do best with your music on and a cold drink waiting for you on breaks. Machines are your real passion, and so long as the people of the city keep funneling you jobs and money, you are as happy as a flower in the sun, as a rat in garbage. Nothing really shocking, or unpredictable, just cars and odds and ends. Just the lulling sounds of cicadas buzzing and distant city rabble. Heaven on Earth.  
So at the arrival of evening, when the cicadas die off and are replaced by sweetly chirruping crickets and droning frogs, you expect the day to end just like all these other remarkably similar days. You wipe the grease from your hands with a rag, and you can see the rest of the evening mapped out before you. You’ll go inside, take a shower, make dinner, sit down and eat and read and smell the smells of home. Maybe tinker around with one of your pet projects. Then you’ll go to bed, body worn and sinking into your mattress, and you’ll sleep deeply through the night, waking up in the morning ready to work again.

What you don’t expect is, as you stand outside the door of your garage, the sight of a car screeching towards you from down the street. What you certainly don’t expect is the car to come to a halt in front of the driveway. And the least expected of all is the man that comes stumbling out from the passenger’s seat, all swears and blood and shining parts, to meet you as you stare, at a loss for words.

“Can you fix this?” he rasps bluntly, showing you the mechanical arm that hangs limply out of a tattered jacket sleeve, fairly mangled beyond recognition as an arm.

Maybe this won’t be so normal of a night, after all.

Quickly, you step towards him, taking the arm by the wrist to examine it. It’s of a complex design, some components recognizable and others not at all. You look up and see three other men emerge from the car, each spattered with varying degrees of gore. “Who…” you start, but you can tell by the cold look you receive from the one who’d been driving that it’s not anywhere near the time for those kinds of questions. “I’ll have to take a closer look. Follow me.” You release the first man’s arm, turning to jog into your workspace. As you turn on the light over your toolbench, your hands are shaking, palms drenched in sweat as you push aside some of the equipment lying on it. “Here,” you say, gesturing, and the man lays his mutilated limb down so you can catch every detail of the damage.

It’s pretty fucking bad. Large weals have been rended in the metal, wires are poking out in places where they shouldn’t be (you think some of the ends might even be live, however that works), and with the light shining down into the tears you can see that several finer bits have been hopelessly crushed. “What the hell did you do to this thing?” you murmur, mostly to yourself, as you turn it this way and that as gently as possible. You can hear his hissing in pain every once in awhile, despite your best efforts. “Did you take a hatchet to it?”

“Nah, somebody else did.” The voice come from the big, brawny man who’s standing behind the driver.

“Seriously?” Your incredulity is mixed with a generous helping of fear.

“Absolutely, sweetheart,” he replies, grinning a blood-stained smile. His teeth have been filed to razor-sharp points. You swallow, hard.

 _So I’m dealing with_ this  _kind of people._

Taking a moment, drawing in deep breaths to calm yourself, you scrutinize the ragtag team. As well at the big guy, the sinister-looking guy and the robot-hand-man, there a short dude who’s watching anxiously you examine the third. The aforementioned gore covers all of them. “I’m sorry,” you start slowly, voice shakier than you would like but reasonably level, “Did you four ever think about getting to a hospital? This may be slightly beyond my jurisdiction.”

“It mostly ain’t ours,” Cyborg spits through gritted teeth. “The blood. Christ, just--tell me you can fix this. We can get ta the other shit after.”

You look over again. Muscle Man is picking scraps of something red out from between his fangs. “Right…” You realize that you’re gripping white-knuckled onto the edge of the bench, and you try and relax, sighing. “Well, look, gentlemen, I…” You rub your temple. “I can try my best here, but I hope you realize that this isn’t going to be an easy fix. It’s going to take a bit of time and effort…”

“Do you have an estimation?”

“W-what?” It’s not as if you don’t know what he means. You’re not a fucking idiot. You’re just approaching a level of flustered that has never been attained before, and the word escapes you before you can hold it back.

“Do you have an estimation of how long?” the formidable driver-man repeats, eyes cold and piercing. You get the feeling that whatever you say, this guy’s not going to be happy with it.

“I…well, considering...that I’ve never...uhh...a couple of weeks?” you offer tentatively, and instantly he looks away, sighing a sigh that’s almost impressive in its amount of layered meanings. “Look, I’m trying my best here--”

“Hey, it’s alright!” the little guy pipes up, and you can tell he’s trying to be optimistic despite the shake that’s in his voice. “As long as it can be done, right, guys? We came to the right person!” He smiles up at you, then at the two men standing beside him.

“Yeah,” the mechanical-armed man concurs, “And you _can_ fix it, right?” He fixes you with a look that makes your insides tremble ever more than they were before. It hadn’t caught your attention until now that he’s blind in one eye, one of the two misshapened and clouded over, and you thought you saw the flash of sharp teeth in his mouth as well. It’s this, combined with the tone of his voice, that compels you to give a firm “Yes” even though you’re still uncertain. Saying just _no_ or _maybe_ , you think, could cost you. “Good. Now, how’re we gonna do this?”

“Alright, um…” You lift the arm slightly again, wondering how in holy flaming hell you got into this. “Well, first of all, take care of whatever other injuries you have going on. I’m not going to…” Pausing, you rephrase. “It would be...inconvenient to work around them, and I’m not a doctor.”

He nods. “A’ight. Fine. Boxcars?” Not knowing what he means, you follow his gaze over to the bouncer-type man, who’s nodding as well. Maybe that’s the guy’s name. You’ve heard odder street names before.

“Second, I’m going to...want you to stick around here for a little while. And before you guys say anything--” because, upon hearing that, a collective noise of disgruntlement was raised, “--if I _was_ a doctor, and this was a flesh wound, you wouldn’t be out of my sight. And I don’t let people go ahead and use their cars before I’m done doing repairs.” They’re all staring you down, and your words are coming out faster and faster as you try to explain yourself in a timely manner. “I obviously don’t control your lives, so do what you will, but I would...uh, I would prefer if I could restore you to some level of functionality before you leave.”

Robo-dude growls lightly, under his breath, so quietly you’re not sure if you were meant to hear it or not. It sends a shiver up your spine. “Right.” You can hear it as he grits his teeth. “Fine. I get it.” Anythin’ else?”

“N-no. No, that’s it.”

“Price?”

Wow, you hadn’t even thought of that. “Uh...we can...we can discuss that...later…? If that’s acceptable--”

“Fine. Now, if you’re so damned concerned about my other injuries, show me ‘n’ Boxcars to a bathroom so we can treat ‘em.” He stands, wincing and clasping his shoulder as his robotic appendage dangles uselessly. “Clubs. Will ya get the kit?” He jerks his head towards the car. “And Droog, keep watch.”

As the little guy heads towards their vehicle, a dawning realization creeps upon you. Quietly, you lead the two the bathroom, heart running a mile a minute. You thought Boxcars sounded a bit familiar. _It can’t be._ Now with the introduction of the other names, you’re a solid ninety-nine percent certain. _I can’t fucking believe it._ These men are the ones that the ones you've always considered a danger speak about in hushed whispers. The ones that urban legends build themselves upon, the ones that rule without contest over the majority of the city, despite the presence of numerous smaller gangs. Spades, Hearts, Diamonds and Clubs. The fabled Midnight Crew. Asking you for help. Hiring you to fix their damned leader. Currently taking over your house and garage.

_Are you absolutely shitting me right now?_

If you feared for your life before, it was jack-squat compared to the numbness that now spreads through your body as you show them the door to the bathroom and then speed walk away.

Your first reaction is to go outside to get some air, but when you do, it’s to see the one you're guessing is Diamonds Droog chastising the one you’re guessing is Clubs Deuce for forgetting what he was doing. “One thing. All he asked for--” He breaks off with another wholly complex but overall irritated sigh, noticing you. “She’s back. Just take the kit and follow her.” Gesturing in your general direction, he walks a little ways outside the workshop and pulls out a cigarette. So much for taking a moment. You should’ve just sat down in the living room.

“They’re not so bad, really,” says Deuce, quite obviously misreading your exasperated expression as he carries a first aid kit over. “We’re all just a little stressed! Once they unwind they’ll be nicer.”

 _Oh, you mean the group of known killers that barged into my home? I’m sure you’ll all be nicer! In fact, I bet later we’ll all sit down and play Scrabble and it’ll be a great time._ You advise yourself not to say that. “What’s going on?” you ask instead, starting back inside. The man is still flecked with blood that “mostly ain’t his,” and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t concerned as to how it got there, and if you’re in any additional danger yourself.

“Oh! Yeah, there were these guys, and, uh...well, I can’t recall all the details, but there was this one that Slick caught, right?”

 _“Slick.” So it really is them._ “Caught?”

“By the throat, y’know. So he was...well, the guy...the guy had one of those thingies...the…”

“Hatchet?”

“Yeah, that!” _Wow. And I still thought they were joking._ “And uh, he hit him. Slick. In his arm.”

“Yeah…?”

“Mhm. A lot.”

 _I could’ve guessed that._ “So...look, we’re...”

“Whatever yer tellin’ her, she don’t need ta know, Deuce.” Despite your concerted effort to slow your steps so as to extend your gleaning information time, your house isn’t particularly large, and you and Clubs are nearing the bathroom. Hearts Boxcars is leaning against the door, giving the other man a stern look, and he reaches out to take the first aid kit.

“Wait--” Boxcars has already turned his back on you and is re-entering your bathroom. “Look, can you--” As you follow him, you see Spades Slick sitting on the lid of your toilet, torso completely bare. You make a noise and throw your hand across your eyes. “Jesus Christ! Okay could--could somebody _please_ tell me what exactly is going on here?!”

“I told you--”

“No, not that! Just--” You lower your voice, made aware once more of who you’re in the presence of. “What did you guys do? Is anyone dang--is anyone else going to come here? Anyone who’s…”

Boxcars chuckles, a low rumble as he pulls out various supplies from the kit that now lays open on the floor. “I don’t think so,” he replies.

“Then why is...why is Mr. Droog standing guard outside?” All of them laugh at ‘Mr. Droog’ and you feel yourself flush.

“Jus’ a precaution, Miss Mechanic.” Shuffling forwards, the big guy begins to clean out around his leader’s shoulder. As far as flesh injuries go (as far as you dare to look--it’s really not all that often that you have shirtless men in your house), Slick doesn’t seem to be all that shabby. You can see a sharp line around the top of his metal arm where it looks like it got rammed into his body, and a few scratches, but that’s it. “They’s mostly dead, from what I reckon.”

“Mostly?”

“The one’s that aren’t dead now will be real soon,” Slick says, and though you’re still averting your eyes you can hear the devious grin on his face. “And they sure wish that we’d killed ‘em quick.”

“You’re sure they won’t come after you?”

“God Almighty--yes, I’m sure. I can’t remember a one that has all a’ his limbs still attached. Hey.” When you look, he’s glaring at you, good eye flashing with irritation. “Look, you ain’t got a job in here yet, a’ight? Ya wanted Hearts to fix me up first, so here we are. Get outta here ‘n’ stop pesterin’ us.”

“She ain’t bein’ no bother, Slick,” Hearts protests vaguely.

“Well, I guess we all have differin’ opinions. Out,” he says to you, and the word has become a command; there are no words to describe the level of resentment that boils up in you. Biting your tongue, you exit without another sound. If he was anyone else, if he wasn’t a pissed-off mobster just back from some murder-and-mayhem tryst, you would’ve spat in his goddamn face.

You sit down in the living room, silently livid. You guess it’s too fucking much to ask if allowing a bunch of dangerous men into your house is going to bring you to any sort of harm. How fucking dare you. After a little while, in the midst of you replaying and revising the scenario in your head, Clubs Deuce comes back out, sitting down with you. He asks after your name, and you introduce yourself, which pulls you into a long and meandering conversation on a variety of topics. There seems to be a pattern in talking to him. The two of you start a subject, it peters off, but then he begins to enthuse about a new one just as you think you’ll be unable to continue. He’s oddly charming, and you feel a little calmer, despite with your mind anxiously chewing on all you’re going to have to do, and all the things that may or may not happen. As he talks, you notice that he’s removed his carmine-spattered jacket, and you appreciate it regardless if he did it for you or him. It wouldn’t do to have mysterious stains all over your couch--then, it probably wouldn’t be overly suspicious to anyone who came in, considering the various smears of grease and whatnot everywhere in the house that’re not worth the trouble of trying to clean any longer. Whatever. You still can recognize whatever modicum of courtesy it was, in this mess that you’ve suddenly found yourself involved in.

After a time, Hearts Boxcars comes back out, asking if you have any spare shirts Slick could use. “His ain’t much use, if ya get me,” he says, almost apologetically. Maybe he’s apologizing for his leader being a douche, but you only say that in your head. Telling him to wait, you retrieve a plain grey tee, because all you wear is boring men’s apparel. Maybe it’ll even fit him correctly. He seems pretty small-framed. He thanks you and when he emerges from your bathroom again, he has a slightly cleaner boss in tow, a makeshift sling for his arm fashioned from whatever non-bloody part of his original shirt there was. Mostly non-bloody. You can see a spot or two.

“I...I suppose you all can stay in the living room,” you say as you eye them a bit nervously. The realization that your living room is designed to hold pretty much just you and a couple of guests is hitting you especially hard right now. “I apologize for the sparse accommodations. And if...well, if any of you need to wash up...” Boxcars appears to take a second before seeing that you’re implying the sanguine smearing around his mouth. “And...yeah. I’ll...get blankets? Pillows? Yes? No?”

There’s a noncommittal grunt from Slick, and Deuce appears to be seriously occupied with examining your one houseplant. You keep forgetting to water that damn thing. Boxcars is the only one that gives you any sort of confirmation, but you take it anyways. Hurrying away to your minimally stocked linen closet, you sigh, pressing your head against the door. The cool wood feels nice. Just for a second, you try to clear your mind. _It’s okay. Just take care of them, then you can relax._ But can you? You don’t know if you trust these people enough to sleep in your house without you keeping an eye on them. _Deep breaths._

You deliver the linens in silence. At that point Droog has come inside, and you ask if they’d like food or drink. Deuce wants water, Boxcars asks if you have beer, to which all of them agree. Okay. Easy. That’s it. You can go after that. You Your kitchen and living room are joined, so you can hear them murmuring to one another as you pour the water. As if you wouldn’t be able to hear them anywhere else. You house is tiny, and your walls are thin. You do have beer in your fridge, and you grab the entire case, bringing it over in one hand with the water in the other. Thanking you warmly for all of them, Boxcars takes the first one, and you give the water to Deuce, vaguely mumble something along the lines of “thankyoudoyounedanythingelse” before getting the hell out of there. You want so badly to close your bedroom door behind you as you enter, but you stop yourself. You need to be able to hear them. You won’t feel safe otherwise. _Ha. A joke. Me? Feeling safe right now?_ You turn on your lamp,  sit on your bed, and you realize you haven’t eaten, or showered. You can hear the showerhead running, so there go your chances of that.

Taking a moment, looking at the walls, you think that your little forays into robotics proudly displayed on your shelves don’t amount to fuckall compared to the herculean task ahead of you. On instinct, you pull the drawer out on your bedside table. A smooth black barrel glints at you from the bottom, and you let out another sigh. You’ve kept this gun in this drawer ever since you moved in here. It would be unwise to not have one in this city, though you live in a relatively suburban area. You’ve not had to use it as of yet, but it has a reassuring presence. Strong. There are four against you if it came to anything, but you cling to that air the gun gives off, and it makes you feel some semblance of less earth-shatteringly afraid. You’re starting to think it may have been completely idiotic to let them into your home in the first place. They could be ripping you off as we speak. I mean, Droog? _A Clockwork Orange_? If that book was to be used as a textbook, this would be a classic maneuver on the Midnight Crew’s part. Not to mention whatever enemies they have, or how they’re in your house with all of your valuables perfectly stealable as if it’s a fucking feast you’ve laid before them, or even how you’re going to fix that mess of an arm. If you can at all.

_Fuck._

At least you have a gun.

It goes without saying that you don’t sleep much that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THAT CHAPTER 1 IS BORING AND FILLED WITH SHITTY FILLER DIALOGUE HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH IF YOU WAIT PATIENTLY YOU'LL GET TO THE GOOD STUFF


	2. Work

“Like _hell_ you are!”

You jerk upright, your fingers still brushing the gun, hand at an awkward angle in your nightstand. The low murmurs coming from the other room had already been invading your restless dreams, but as soon as it escalated to shouting adrenaline jumped through your veins and snapped you into consciousness. You stay still, listening as well as you can with your pulse pounding in your ears; you need to determine if getting involved will cost you your life or not.

“Look, Slick…” Droog’s voice is low, an odd mixture of soothing and irritated.

“No, Droog, _you_ look! You three ain’t leavin’ til I say you can!”

“What do you suggest? We stay here the entire time you’re being fixed?”

“I’m--”

“Could take a bit, boss,” Boxcars chimes in. “‘N’ in case ya hadn’t noticed, it’s a little packed in here. This broad ain’t a magician, she can’t figure out a way ta house all four a’ us fer...however long. And--”

“Well--”

“I think she can get ya fixed up, but--”

“Hold on--”

“I’m jus’sayin’--”

“Shut the _fuck_ up, will you?” There’s a pause. “I don’t-- _we_ don’t actually know the girl, a’ight? I sure as hell don’t fuckin’ trust her!”

“And so you’re going to trust her with your arm?” Droog sounds bored now, and you can tell by the slightly muffled quality of his voice that he’s smoking.

“It ain’t as if we got an array of knowledgeable mechanics lined up to repair the damn thing!”

“Exactly, Spades.” A sigh. “Look, we have to take what we can get. We haven’t heard anything shifty about her, she seems learned enough from what we know; this is, by far, best case scenario in a shit situation. If you’re about to trust her with your entire limb, surely you can trust her to not pull anything idiotic on you. Which I doubt you she will, judging from the simply _incredible_ amount of fear on her face upon seeing us.” There’s a chuckle from Boxcars. “In any case, she’s absolutely correct--you’re in no condition for us to be toting you back and forth from the hideout to here.”

“Sure I fuckin’ am!”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous.”

“You _aren’t_ , Slick!” Deuce’s voice. It’s shrill, anxious, a little mad. “Please, just stay here! You aren’t well enough to do anything else! We’ll check in with you--we got our walkies, and the phone back at home! It’ll be fine! You know it’ll be!”

Silence reigns. “Well, you three made it real clear how you feel about this.” Slick’s voice is venomous, almost sulky. Leader of the Midnight Crew, _sulky._ It’d be funny thought if it didn’t involve a bunch of mobsters arguing in your kitchen. “Fine. _Fine_. Go home, beat off, have just a grand fuckin’ time. But I want _you_ to stay for the rest of the day. Hey! No! Don’t gimme that fuckin’ look! _That’s_ the deal. You two get the fuck out, I don’t wanna see yer ugly mugs unless they’re bearin’ a solid apology. Go on then!”

There’s a pause. Boxcars speaks again. “It’s not like we ain’t--”

“I said _go._ I’m done with you.”

After a moment, there’s a mutter that sounds something like “Come on, Clubs”, and you hear your front door open, and then close.

It’s silent. You clench your teeth, and slowly close the drawer, hiding the gun away. It sounds like Boxcars and Deuce are gone, and you can’t decide if that’s good or bad for you. On one hand, the less dangerous individuals in your house the better, but those two made up the half of the group that seemed to bear some modicum of kindness towards you. There’s no one to back you up this time. After a long, tense minute, you slip out the door, which has remained cracked, and down the short hall.

As predicted, it is Diamonds Droog who was the man left behind. The two stand on opposite sides of your kitchen; Droog with his elbows on the island as he finishes his cigarette with leisure, Slick against your counter with his arms crossed and a glare that looks like it’s burning holes through his feet. When he turns it to you, you feel as if it sets your entire body afire. An image of his glower incinerating you and turning you into a crumbled pile of ashes flits through your head, grey dust drifting away across the floor. You can tell that they know you heard the whole thing. Groping for something to say, you notice a familiar smell in the air, even through the invasion Droog’s smoke is performing on your nostrils. They found the coffee pot, it seems. “Did you...did you two eat at all?” you say in an attempt at briskness, bustling all the way into the room and pretending as if Slick’s eyes aren’t following you. Your stomach has, overnight, reached that critical point of hunger where there’s no desire to eat, only a tight and vaguely nauseated pit that screams at even the thought of food. You’ll be damned if you leave your guests without something to eat though; they are your guests, regardless of if you’re terrified of them or not.

The niceness of the gesture makes it especially awkward when no one responds.

Proceed the most horribly silent breakfast you’ve ever cooked.

As you set plates of eggs and vegetables on the surfaces in their general area (they haven’t moved), Droog gives you a quietly amused look over his cup of coffee. Is it Slick’s half-muttered “Thanks” that sounded almost like a curse, or the frozen look that has been clinging to your face for the last ten minutes, that his lips are slightly quirked at? “What’s your name?” he asks, the question punctuated by the gritting of your teeth.

You start to tell him, but then you stop. You go to start serving yourself. “If you didn’t know, I don’t think you’d be here.”

“Hm.” With your back to him, you hear the clink of his fork on the plate. “We, perhaps, could’ve just known your address.”

“Yeah?” Your voice is full of forced disinterest. You almost violently dish food out, way more than you’re going to eat. The thought of how they got here, them just _knowing_ your name and address, skitters through your brain like a rat in the wall.

There’s a pause. “We knew both.” It’s said with a smile.

_How reassuring._

The coffee pot is empty, nothing but a ring of brown cooling on the bottom. It’s fine, you’re wide awake anyhow.

After you eat, choking it down just because you know you can’t actually live without nutrition, you excuse yourself, grabbing clothes before shutting yourself into the bathroom. You know you’ll only be getting to work in a few, and therefore it makes the shower a mere formality, but it’s a formality you wish to take. However, as much as you hoped it would, the warm water does nothing to release the knots tying and untying themselves in your stomach. It only makes it worse, it seems, as if the heat is just an extension of Slick’s ravenous dislike of you and every part of the impression you’ve made so far. You stare at the wall. You remember to wash your hair. You stare at the wall some more. The pattering of droplets on your back feels like a burden. You give up. You get dried and dressed.

They’ve migrated to the living room, and it looks like you interrupted them in the middle of discussing something, judging by the poorly hidden annoyance they’re showing. You whisper apologies in your head. “Hey, um, Mr....” Remembering the “Mr. Droog” incident, you stop yourself on the brink of disaster. “...Spades...Slick, sir?” He grins, you wince. Should’ve just stuck with “sir”. It would’ve been so much simpler. “Are you...ah, fuck. Are you ready for me to take a look at…?” You make some vague and generalized motions towards the sling.

“Be still, my beating heart,” Slick drawls, getting up with exaggerated slowness. You swear to God you see Droog smirking, but the suggestion has left his face by the time you look again. “Yeah. I’m ready.” He beckons his second-in-command, and after you standing awkwardly for a moment, you realize that you should be leading. Your insides roll as you turn away from them, moving robotically out the door to the garage.

While you go to your workbench and turn on the light, Slick tells Droog to go stand watch, positioning him at the edge of the outside. You note with a distracted and morbid sort of fascination that a smear of blood remains on the edge of the worn surface. A fingerprint, maybe. Goodie. When Slick joins you, you ask him to sit and stretch out his limb, which he does reluctantly, almost arthritically. It looks just as bad as before. Gingerly, you slip your hands underneath it, and he jerks in a way that seems to be reflexive, a sharp exhale escaping him. “Hold still,” you say, squinting closer. From what you can see in the violent openings rended in the metal, and in a slightly less flustered state you were the first time you looked, there are some recognizable components therein. However, you think you’ll have to remove some of the plating to really see. You turn it slightly, and he twitches again, eliciting a sigh from you. “Do you know if there’s any way to possibly...detach this, sir?”

“No.” The response comes with such swiftness and force that you look up, startled. He seems startled too, defensiveness running rapidly over his face at your reaction. “ _No._ ”

You hate to push your luck, but you’re not going to get much of anywhere if he keeps flailing about like this. “...Are you certain?”

“I’m--yes! I mean, I’ve never tried it, but Jesus Christ, it’s a part of my body! Why the hell would I _remove_ it?”

“Alright, okay! We’ll just say that we can’t. Let me just…” You lift the edge of his t-shirt--your t-shirt, you remember--you subtly examine the top of his arm. Oh boy. The arm ends, but there appear to be wires wound into his flesh, and if you took those out you’d have no idea how to get them back in again. So scratch that. After a moment, you realize that you may have been a little callous, and as you pull the sleeve back down you ask, “Does it hurt at all? The arm itself, that is.”

“I’m…” He sounds unsure, then aggravated.  “Look, does it matter? Just fix the goddamn thing, it doesn’t havta be a fuckin’ interrogation.”

“No. I suppose it doesn’t.” Looking around, you reach under the bench and pull out your set of screwdrivers. Normally you’d use your electric screwdriver, but you’re not about to use a piece of hardware like that on a human being. You look at the screws holding the plating on, determining what one you’ll need. “Here’s the plan so far: I’m going to take off some of this outer metal and take a look at the inside. You got that?” He stiffens, nodding. “Here’s what I’m going to use…” You choose a medium-sized Philips, touch it to one of the screws, then select a slightly smaller one upon seeing the comparison between the head and the slots. “Ready?”

“...Yeah.”

As you undo the first one, he makes a pained noise, his metal hand curling in slightly. Gritting your teeth, you give him a sideways glance. His eyes are closed, jaw clenched tight in a grimace. You hear Droog shifting on the cement floor behind you, and you think he’s, no doubt, voyeuring in on your struggles with interest. “So, it _doesn’t_ hurt.”

Slick leans in, and you can smell the aftertaste of coffee as he snarls, “ _Go fuck yourself._ ” A chill creeps down your spine and a hot flush across your cheeks. Then a second passes, and he adds quietly, “Maybe.”

“Sir...?” Any small victory will do.

“ _Fuck_ you; _yes_. Just...along the...the wires.” He indicates with his forefinger the wires lying just underneath the surface, mangled and twisted. They seem to twitch vaguely, like half-dead earthworms, and you swallow hard.  “I think--y’know what? Just take some care, a’ight? I ain’t no fuckin’ car, and if you fuck me up I promise you I will strangle the god damn life outta you.”

“Sensitive much?” Droog calls over.

“Shut the fuck up, you asshat,” Slick calls back.

You get the feeling that this sort of exchange is not uncommon between them.

Careful not to jostle any wires, you spend the next stretch of time carefully removing each segment of plating on the inside, exposing the internal dynamics piece by piece, amongst the nest of worms. You’ve never seen anything like it before. Quite clearly, they knew your vague background in robotics, otherwise they wouldn’t have tumbled onto your doorstep--but, as you thought before, this is by far the most complicated machine you’ve ever seen. What even _is_ that part? Is it a motor of some kind? It doesn’t help that it’s half-crushed and mostly indistinguishable. You tell him that you’ll do what you can today, but tomorrow you’ll have to go out and do some shopping. He asks why you can’t do that today. You say because one, you need to decide what parts to get, two, you need to decide how exactly you’re going to put it all back together, and three, you’ve already taken off the majority of the outer metal and you’re not about to put it back on again so he can come with you without wires sticking out everywhere. “Why do I have to come?” he asks.

“It’s your arm, make sure I get the right parts,” is all you say. You bite your tongue to keep the saltier things from escaping.

Slick grumbles, mostly to himself, about how you really seem to enjoy pushing the line. In your head you hear yourself reply, _It’s not that I like it, it’s that in order to get anything done I have no other choice._

Metalwork, you know how to do. Patching, reshaping--child’s play. It’s a perfect excuse for not looking at whatever fucking mess is going on internally with that arm. You gather the plates you’ve removed and take them to the far side of your garage, which houses forge that has lain unused for months.

You think you’ll try to reassemble those wires next. Add some sort of painkiller to your shopping list.

You break for lunch, but otherwise you work on molding the segments into some semblance of what they once were. You measure, heat, hammer, bend, and attempt to push the thought that this is basically a man’s skin out of your mind. That, and the resentment being aimed at you from across the room, you drown with a tape inserted into your tape deck and the shuffling of metal sheets, hiding behind your welder’s mask. Slick, you hardly interact with, past the initial measurements and scribblings--the source, you think, of the withering stares he’s been giving you whenever you pass. He must be bored, then. Or maybe he doesn’t like alternative rock, Layne Stanley’s screeches and low growls. It’s your garage and your work, you could care less. After you rework and compare the first piece beside his arm, and gain his approval on the shape and size, you tell him that he can go off and entertain himself. You have books inside, if he wants to read. He seems grateful to escape the stool you’d confined him to. You watch him go, watch him leave Droog hovering outside with you like some sardonic spectre, and you go back to blocking out the world with music loud and the shine of hot metal in your eyes.

Dinner is silent. You wash the dishes and take another shower. Your eardrums tremble from having the volume of your music so loud all day, and if it weren’t for the stench of another cigarette you could be numb enough to pretend they’re gone.

You go to bed that night remembering those copper-ended worms, twitching every so slightly. Your hands feel dirty. You feel as if you’ve violated something in touching them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear on my life next chapter will be more interesting
> 
> also i'm sorry if you thought i'd given up on this fic, it is now my primary writing project and i am not gonna forget it. i estimate about 5 chapters to this


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